


Turnabout Is A Confession

by porcupi



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Role Reversal, cannibals in love, criminals solving crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 23:44:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1204909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcupi/pseuds/porcupi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tell me about the first one," Will says, and Hannibal does.</p>
<p>Hannibal visits Will at the Baltimore State Hospital, where they continue to solve crimes and have conversations. The conversations are not exactly the same as before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turnabout Is A Confession

**Author's Note:**

> It's not really AU until season 2 begins, I guess.

It's two months into Will Graham's incarceration and nobody knows what to say. Brian Zeller wishes Hallmark made cards for these occasions. He finally understands the saying _quiet as a morgue_ , and someone could stand to make a killing -- a _fortune_ \-- off that card in Virginia. _I know I was an asshole to you. I'm sorry you snapped. Thank you for sparing my organs._

Brian Zeller and Jimmy Price work overtime now. The serial killers of the Mid-Atlantic aren't taking a break just because they caught the Copycat Killer. That he happened to be the FBI's top profiler as well only makes the workload less relenting. It's three weeks before they're at a fresh crime scene, five in the morning, and Zeller stands and looks at the bodies, and gets up, and passes the camera to Price, and dashes off for some fresh air. Price watches him go, holding the camera. Then he goes back to work, because someone has to do it. Katz isn't going to wait.

Beverly Katz is handling things well, as she always does. Taking things in stride is what got her here, and it's what will get her through this. Some days she catches Jack down at the firing range, and they nod at each other while pulling on their muffs. Then it's just putting bullets in targets without saying a word, the deafening crack of the handguns a soothing rhythm that dulls the fizz of helplessness dripping like sweat past the rims of their goggles.

Jack Crawford stayed by the hospital bed for days, but eventually tore himself away because he needed to spend time at home. Phyllis Crawford has been doing all right, but she has enough to deal with without her husband falling apart. Jack tries, but still finds himself staring into space too often around her. She understands, which makes it worse. Sometimes he wishes she would scream at him, like Alana did once in his office. He does best when someone is angry at him; he knows how to resist an outward force.

Alana Bloom is better and worse than the rest of them at once. Unlike the rest of them, she acknowledges she's human. She's allowed to break. It's what happened the night after the arrest, when it rained well past sunset and she sat in her living room with an empty glass she couldn't bring herself to refill, and just as well, because the doorbell rang and she went to open it and Hannibal was standing on the front porch. And he looked up and confessed, _I should have seen it, I should have known, I don't know why, maybe I didn't want --_ and Alana had stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him and said, _it's not your fault, I thought I knew him too._

Hannibal Lecter's been away. They've all been kept away.

These are the things Will Graham sees before he opens his eyes, when the hinges on the door clang and someone's voice says, "Will Graham, you have a visitor."

People say that Will Graham's crazy, that he connects dots that aren't there. But people are wrong. The dots are there. Sometimes it just doesn't take many.

\---

"Will," Jack says, quiet and unable to meet his eyes. Jack has always favored a direct gaze, but not now. Will supposes it's the jumpsuit that makes him uncomfortable. If he thinks of the day Jack first found Will in the lecture halls at Quantico, he feels a strange irony, a reversal of roles. "I know you have no reason to help us on this --"

"Where's Dr. Lecter?" Will says.

"He's not here," Jack says.

"Send Dr. Lecter," Will says.

Jack speaks as gently as he can. "You tried to kill Dr. Lecter."

"And yet you're the one who's afraid," Will says. "Smash the fine china and it doesn't break?" He watches Jack's face change to an expression of unhappiness. _Fear makes you rude, Will._ Then he turns away, settles on his cot. His voice is muffled. "Send Dr. Lecter. I'll answer his questions, like I've always done."

Jack goes.

\---

Chilton leers through the bars after Jack's gone.

The man is pale, shaking, profoundly unwell. Not too long ago he held his entrails in his hands, guts spilled out for his former prey of choice. Will regards him with detached interest.

"What could he want from you?" Chilton says. "After he left you in here?"

Chilton doesn't speak to Will, in actuality. Chilton speaks at Will, as if Will was an object without sentience, as if Will was a being incapable of human communication, as if it wasn't possible to simply ask Will what he thought, but one had to resort to conjecture, to speculation. In a way, he is correct.

Chilton eventually limps off. Will doesn't bother watching him.

\---

Zeller comes by and approaches with dread, standing some ways away from the bars. He's still clad in his gear with spare latex gloves dangling from his back pocket. He slides a file of papers under the door.

"Uh, Jack said to leave that for you. You don't have to -- you know, just -- I'm gonna leave that there."

Zeller fidgets awkwardly for a bit. He looks like he wants to say something, but ends up slinking back out the way he came. He'll regret keeping his mouth shut later, for maybe the first time in his life, and Will feels a little satisfied about that despite himself.

\---

Beverly comes in and talks about the case.

She describes the crime scene in as much detail as she can manage, the state of the victim, the timelines, the test results, the evidence. She talks without a break, without a pause, reading her notes aloud to herself. There's a dry, witty observation or aside every so often, but that's Beverly.

At the end, she closes the file, drums her fingers on top and says, "That's it. Jack could really use your help on this one. Price and I have pulled so much overtime in the lab it's like we're four people, which is about right, because now there's no one to puncture Zeller's ego anymore, Jack's kept him out and about. I think Jack's hoping the hot air will help him float high enough to get an aerial view of the crime scenes."

Beverly pauses just long enough to pretend that this is a real conversation, then shrugs and gets up. She gathers her coat off the back of the plastic chair.

"I won't ask if you're okay," she says. "You don't need to tell me."

It's matter-of-fact, but still warm. This is something Will has always liked about Beverly. He knows she won't let it bother her if he doesn't acknowledge her presence, so he doesn't let it bother him.

\---

Alana comes in and doesn't bring her tests, or her notes, or her tape recorders, nothing. She just sits on the other side of the bars. Will looks at her and wonders if his eyes look as dead as she expects. She sits there, face like stone, until tears are running down her cheeks. Then she gets up and leaves.

\---

"Lecter'll be by tomorrow this time," Jack says.

After a minute's silence, Will knows Jack's done waiting.

Will hears Jack's footsteps retreat.

Will sleeps peacefully for the first time in months.

\---

Will wakes up.

There are no clocks.

Will waits.

 

\---

 

"Hello, Will."

"Hello, Doctor Lecter."

Will smiles.

 

\---

 

"She's a hybristophiliac," Will Graham starts by saying. His voice is rough from disuse, but not much more so than it would have been after a weekend spent on the farmhouse. His gaze is far away, and were it not for the clothes, it would all seem familiar, one of many conversations in the office in Baltimore. "Bonnie-and-Clyde syndrome. But she's lost her Clyde. Is she a copycat? Is she continuing a kill pattern out of devotion, completing her lover's life work?" His mouth thins. "Or are they only lovers in her mind?"

Hannibal watches him, legs crossed, comfortable in his plastic chair. "You believe they haven't met?"

"Love letters like a trail. A cry for attention, a confession. She wants to be noticed. She wants to be found. If it wasn't a pattern, you wouldn't need me." Will looks up. "Did you ever think of coming with me?"

It takes a moment for Hannibal to understand this question is directed at him.

"I took you to Minnesota," he replies.

"If I had wanted to keep going. Would you have come with me?"

"This conversation is being recorded, Will."

"And they aren't all recorded?" Will laughs. "If I'd put down the gun, what would you have done?"

Hannibal chooses honesty. "I would have wanted to help you. Jack knows that."

"Jack's afraid. Jack's response to fear is to press forward, move onward. He tries to break through fear like a barrier, like he can leave the pieces behind. It's why he never notices the important things until they've wrapped themselves around his neck and pulled tight." Will's hands are empty, resting on his thighs. "If Jack hadn't come, what would you have done?"

Hannibal is still, and for a long time it is as if they are both animals in the forest, unsure if they have been seen.

Will sits back. "Where were the bodies going before we picked them up?"

Hannibal answers only after licking his lips. "Only cursory efforts were made to hide the corpses. The killer must have expected one or more of them would be found."

"Tell Jack to check with the hospitals and the families. Special requests, burial plans. Anybody at the coroner's office who handles those. Come back when you have them."

"Or when it happens again?"

Will smiles slightly. "I'll know when it happens again," he says.

\---

Jack comes in and shouts at Will. He shouts at Will against his own better judgment. He shouts for ten minutes because Hannibal was obligated to turn over a tape, and because Hannibal didn't want to turn over the tape, and because Hannibal had to do it anyway, and Jack listened.

"You should take more care with your tools," Will says after the ten minutes.

"Will," Jack says, desperate. "What are you doing?"

"Answering the questions," Will says. "Don't listen if you don't want to know."

Jack can't not listen, is the thing. Will is still Jack's best, and Jack can't afford not to know. Even if he could, wilful blindness is not in Jack's nature, and Jack's lost too much to let anything go now.

\---

Alana visits again the day before Hannibal is to deliver Will the paperwork. She brings a clipboard and a pencil for show, but just that, for show. She sets them aside once she takes her seat.

"Were you afraid of me?" Will asks the empty air in front of him. "After you heard what happened to those girls? What happened to Abigail?"

Alana doesn't cry this time. Her voice is steady. "Garret Jacob Hobbs killed those girls."

"Is that what Dr. Lecter thinks?"

"I can't tell you what Hannibal thinks," she says. "I can tell you what I think."

"You told him not to come here," Will says, as if to say _I know what you think._

Alana sits back, and the crease between her brows lessens in degree. "Not in so many words," she sighs. "But then nobody ever seems to listen to what I say, myself included."

Will nods. "Thank you, Alana," he says, and he means it. He's done more to her than she deserves.

She takes the pencil and the clipboard with her.

\---

Hannibal watches Will through the bars. "I was told you spoke with Alana Bloom."

Will knows. Alana would have told him.

"She said your discussion was limited in scope. You were only willing to speak about certain topics. Namely --"

"You," Will says, turning a page.

"Yes. She said you seemed to care very much about what I think. She said you told her --"

Will's eyes flick up. "His is the only opinion that matters. He and I are --"

"-- just alike."

Will stops flipping through the file of names, phone numbers, messages and addresses. Hannibal looks mildly puzzled. Perhaps he looks concerned. Will leans forward, patient.

"Madchen. Did you think I would kill Georgia Madchen?"

"No, Will. I didn't think you'd kill anyone."

"But she was different, wasn't she? The others were cut, stuck, displayed, like pigs in a butcher's shop. She was _roasted._ "

"They say it was meant to look like an accident," Hannibal says.

"Oh, none of them were meant to look like accidents. You know psychopaths don't feel regret. What made her different? Why break a pattern?"

"Mental illness doesn't always adhere to patterns."

"This one does," Will reminds. "You said I get into these killers' heads. Whose head was I in?"

Before Hannibal can give an answer, Will goes on. "Who was at the office the week before November the twenty-sixth?"

Hannibal says, "I don't know. Jack can find out for you, I'm sure."

"The handwriting in the message book is different on Thursdays and Fridays starting that month. Find out who the new receptionist was. Question them and the old receptionist separately about weekend lock-up procedures -- who stayed the latest, whether any files were accessed more often than others." Will closes the folder of loose paper and hands it back. "If someone was looking through the records on Monday or Tuesday, they'd have taken a whole chunk of files. Thursday or Friday, it might matter less who was watching."

Hannibal frowns. "The FBI already have the files on the two related deaths. You think there was a prior victim that the police may have missed in their investigations?"

"A death by internal hemorrhaging, where other minor injuries may have seemed incidental," Will agrees.

Hannibal looks as perturbed as he ever looks. "I'll let Jack know."

"If Jack was the one who needed to know, I'd have told Jack," Will says.

Hannibal looks back before he goes, and Will sits, waiting for the next visit.

\---

Will can hear their voices in the quiet of his cell.

_What was he to you?_

_A friend._

\---

"There are three people Jack would like to question further," Hannibal says. The shoulders of his coat are lightly dampened by rain today. He has a sheaf of papers, removed from his briefcase in the lobby, so as not to get the documents wet. There is nowhere to put his briefcase here.

"Potential suspects," Will says.

"Yes."

"Did you profile them?"

Hannibal looks surprised at the suggestion. "I don't have your gift for perception."

"You have talents of your own, Doctor," Will says. "Was it only Jack who wanted to question these three?"

Hannibal concedes. "He wanted my opinion."

"What did you say?"

"I told him my impressions may be inaccurate."

"Were your impressions about me inaccurate?"

No, and he knew Will was a killer; but Hannibal has his professional pride, credibility painstakingly built.

"Tell me about the first one," Will says, and Hannibal does.

\---

_You've nearly been killed twice this year. It's happened before._

_You know as well as I do there are dangers in our line of work._

_I've known him longer than you have, Hannibal. And I've known you a lot longer than that._

Alana is not unintelligent.

_You said you trusted me._

_I trusted him, too._

Will knows Alana will see it.

_But when he came to me, Hannibal, I was ready._

\---

"You weren't supposed to come here today," is what Will says when Hannibal comes in with Jack, long after visiting hours on a cold February evening.

"She struck again," is all Jack says.

Will looks from Hannibal to Jack, and grins first, and then laughs, an unhinged, rusty sound.

Jack looks murderous. He takes the recording device out of his coat pocket and hands it to Hannibal without taking his eyes off Will.

"Fifteen minutes," Jack says. "Not a second more."

\---

"It follows the pattern," Hannibal says.

"It doesn't follow the pattern," Will says. The marks are the same, but this time is different. "You and I both know this isn't a typical borderline case."

"You weren't expecting this."

"Do you think I have an interest in seeing more people die?" Will is at ease, complacent. "What do you believe has changed?"

"Since the last killing?"

Hannibal looks out of place here, Will observes. The dreary surrounding becomes him.

"The investigation," Hannibal says.

"I don't hear much from the media in here," Will says. "Should we be surprised she's heard?"

"No," Hannibal says. "There's little information about the investigation, but there has been coverage of the murders."

"Have you questioned the suspects Jack picked out?"

"We have."

"Then you know it wasn't one of them," Will says.

Hannibal scrutinizes Will. "You knew."

"I only know the limited information you give me," Will says. "I knew what you knew."

Hannibal exhales slowly. "We have gone after the wrong people."

Will says, "Not everybody wants to be left alone."

_The Ripper would consider that rude._

Hannibal gets up to leave.

\---

The lines are invisible in this cell. There are walls, but Will doesn't see the walls. The guards will peer in, but the guards are used to it. Will stands in the middle of the room, exhales, closes his eyes.

There are few interruptions now.

Scars remain from the scratches all up and down Will's arms from that winter night, thin and faint. Will couldn't tell you how they got there. Chilton watches him stand in front of the wall, swipe the blood from his arms with a finger and draw.

\---

From behind the bars, Will says, "Dr. Lecter, have you ever felt abandoned?"

Hannibal stops.

"I know you see me and I know what you see. The most abandoned of all abandoned strays, living in an old abandoned house in an old abandoned field with all his abandoned dogs. The loyalty of a stray animal is quickly won, but the wrath of a caged animal is constant. Are we animals, Dr. Lecter?"

Animals to hunt, to lure? To slaughter?

Will watches the shadow move over Hannibal's face. Jack won't be hearing this.

Will says, "You should get going. It's late. You don't want to be caught in the snowstorm." He turns away, just far enough. "The woods are dark this time of year, and we know you don't enjoy the cold."

Hannibal is frowning.

Hannibal goes eventually.

Will hasn't seen outside in months.

\---

_After what happened to Abigail, after what happened to you in Minnesota?_

_So? He wanted me. This way there is nobody at risk but me._

_He could have killed you, Hannibal._

_He didn't harm me then. He won't harm me now._

_This is harming you now! This is harming both of you._

_We are saving lives, Alana!_

_And that's important, but look what it did to Will!_

It is rare for Hannibal to speak sharply.

_I am not Will._

Alana's eyes are blazing, as they often are now.

_If you can't help him, don't follow him down._

The door closes. Will can see Hannibal standing still for a long moment. In most circumstances, Hannibal finds pleasure in a good verbal altercation, but today he seems less satisfied, more troubled.

After some time, Hannibal opens his clenched hand. So does Will.

\---

Hannibal and Jack disagree. Will knows this much when Hannibal shows up with a single file, photographs and handwritten notes, carefully dated in ink pen.

Will looks through the file. It's nobody he's ever seen before. Hannibal watches him.

Will says, "What makes you think it's her?"

Hannibal says, "I don't know."

Will hands the file back through the slot.

"Send in Jack to interview her. He should be compassionate, patient, he should buy everything she says. Then he will call in a team to arrest her. He will do it coldly and with minimal explanation. He will do it without mercy. She will struggle, but she will not be armed. She will be subdued easily. She will confess. Any additional evidence will be in her garden -- the basement is used for entertaining guests."

Hannibal takes the file back. He straightens his jacket.

"Tell Zeller to take a photograph in the direction of the arrest, she'll like that. It's the attention she wants, after all."

Hannibal tilts his head. "Jack doesn't do patience very well," he says.

Will smiles. "Tell him he'll strain if he has to," he says, and Hannibal's face changes, like it did once when he used to make Will laugh.

\---

There is a pattern like veins, or antlers, crawling up the wall at the head of the cot, growing like black branches to the ceiling. It seeps from the cracks in the brickwork, viscid, gathering in the corners, twining through the bars, a forest of bone and dry skin like leaves.

 

" _He took credit for his work. The Ripper would consider that rude."_

 

_OR_

_ARE_

_YOU_

_HE?_

 

A sound like the wind shrieking, like sirens, muffled by the rainfall.

 

_a clock on the wall, numbers one through twelve around the edge, no hands._

_a clock on the wall, numbers twelve through one._

_a clock on the wall, numbers one through twelve dripping off one side like a cascade._

 

_"Whose personality is it?"_

 

Will walks backwards, and when he reaches the bars, he closes his eyes and rests his head back against them, and passes through.

\---

Did you ever think of coming with me? Helping me get away? Helping me kill?

 

Full of tears shall be that day,

when from the ashes shall arise,

the guilty man to be judged!

\---

The next time Hannibal sees him, Will knows the investigation is over. It has been over for a week. Hannibal brings only himself.

Hannibal says, "We caught her. You were right."

Will is sitting on the cot, eyes closed.

"There was a doctor at the hospital who dealt with spinal cord trauma. He had been put under investigation twice within the last two years, but nothing came up. The killer worked at the coroner's office. She dealt with the bodies in both those incidents. We suspect there were several more that went unnoticed."

Two at once, original and duplicate, working together from afar. What did Jack have to say about that?

"She and the doctor may have spoken, or they may have not. The murders were her way of communicating with him. She wanted to say she understood. Unfortunately, the victims died before the message was conveyed in the manner she may have wanted."

His report would be over, if he were merely here to tell Will about the results of their work. But Will senses that Hannibal is waiting for something, a response to a question he hasn't asked and cannot formulate aloud.

Will raises his head at last. "Jack has enough evidence. Why are you here?"

Hannibal could say he was here as a courtesy. Hannibal says nothing.

"People will say we're in love," Will murmurs. He gets up off the cot and faces Hannibal. "The doctor did read about the investigation in the papers, though."

"He did," Hannibal says.

"He got her message."

"Yes."

Will asks, "Is this conversation being recorded, Dr. Lecter?"

Hannibal keeps his gaze on Will. Slowly, Hannibal removes the recording device from his jacket pocket. He opens up the back and takes out the batteries. He sets them on the ground and slides the device across to the bars.

Will watches this. And then he looks up at Hannibal, takes in the man's inscrutable expression, and whispers,

"You need to be curious because you don't know, _but I know."_

Will Graham opens his eyes.

\---

 

When Freddie Lounds writes about you on her blog, and she will write about you, who do you think she'll say broke the other?

 

Did I break you, doctor, or did you break me?

 

Or was it the Minnesota Shrike that broke both of us?

 

See, I know it was Garret Jacob Hobbs for me. I watched Garret Jacob Hobbs die. It was his mind that had infected mine. But not for you, no. Your mind was already eaten.

 

What replaced it? What is it you look for? You build walls, but you tire of being alone.

 

Am I alone because I am unique? Someone who thinks like I think?

 

What did Abigail say? Or did she say nothing? Just that little, final gasp that reminded you of someone you knew when you were just a boy?

 

I stood there in the kitchen, but I didn't see. Not at first.

 

Folie a deux. Sounds like a dish.

 

I can see you.

 

Don't you see yourself in me?

 

\---

Will smiles. It's a smile without guile.

"Same time next week, doctor. Mark it down in your appointment book."

Hannibal's eyes are pinpricks of darkness. He is motionless, reluctant to leave. To someone else he might look mildly dismayed. To Will he is a blank slate on which has been sketched the wrong face.

Hannibal draws back when it is clear nothing else is forthcoming this session. Jack will not be pleased, but they both know he will be back.

At the last, Will calls out, "Doctor."

Hannibal turns back, and Will holds out the recording device he had left behind.

\---

Hannibal Lecter arrives back at his office in Baltimore at 1:25 pm. He sets his keys, phone and wallet on the table, along with the recording device. He takes off his gloves and folds them neatly, leaving them on the corner. He removes his jacket and places it on a hanger. He stops.

There is a drop of blood on the cuff of his shirt.

He stares at it in surprise.

The blood is new, still bright. He examines the rest of his clothing carefully but finds it spotless. His office is immaculate as usual.

The source is not evident until he looks more closely at his hands. A fish hook has been embedded in his palm, between the thumb and the first finger. The black barb is caught just under the skin, enough to draw a smear of blood.

After a moment, he pushes the hook through. He uses a scalpel from his drawer to remove the wire and sucks on the wound until the trickle of blood stops.

He sits at his desk, opens his notepad.

He closes the notepad and stands again.

He picks up his phone, dials a number, waits.

He says, "Don't allow him metal cutlery. Plastic only."

He puts down the phone.

 

 


End file.
